


Furor Brevis

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Amabilis Insania [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anger, Awkward Crush, Canon Backstory, Confrontations, Crushes, Dialogue Heavy, Dragon Age Quest: The Last Resort of Good Men, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fire, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heart-to-Heart, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Light Angst, Male-Female Friendship, Oculara, Rage, Redcliffe, Rescue, Romantic Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, Superstition, Support, Tears, Tranquil Mages, some Canon Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having barely recovered after Felix's death (with a lot of help from his new friend, Inquisitor Lavellan), Alexius thinks it might be a good idea to encourage Halward Pavus to reconcile with his own son, so that their family is not destroyed like his was. When he learns the full story about what transpired between Dorian and Halward, however, this might change his mind. Drastically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual in this series, I am using Latin (a.k.a. Tevene) expressions for titles. In this case, the story name means 'Brief Madness', from the quote 'Ira furor brevis est' (Anger is brief madness).

It is still there, on the table below the narrow window in the modest living quarters that Alexius was given when the Inquisitor judged and sentenced him to serve the rebel mages. A small, round phial filled with dark liquid.  
  
It was the result of a... personal side project that he worked on in his spare hours, when he and Fiona's charges were assigned to study the alchemical ingredients found in the new areas within the Inquisition's reach, and develop potential potion formulae (yes, formulae - if those Southerners insist on borrowing Tevene words, they should at least do so without maiming them). One of the curious herbs brought to the mages turned out to be an excellent base for a potent poison... And so, here it is, turned into a dense, tar-like mass and contained within a vial that sits and gathers dust.  
  
Alexius has looked at it many times, after that last conversation with his son, who had contacted him through a sending crystal shortly before his death. When, crushed by pain, he smashed the crystal into countless tiny, hard specks, and remained staring at it, unable to move or to speak or to think - the Inquisitor rushed to his side and, without saying a word, drew him into one of her unannounced, startling, but very affectionate embraces. For the longest time, they just stood there, in the courtyard of the keep, while the world moved by, somewhere far, far away. The warmth of the Inquisitor's touch; the tender yet unyielding strength with which she held on to him, even as violent, spasmodic, almost completely tearless sobs ripped through his body; the slow, calming rhythm in which she swayed from side to side, as though he were a child that needed to be rocked to sleep - it all made the initial agony of loss subside slightly. But eventually, the Inquisitor had to step away from him, summoned by a scout on an urgent errand - and with her gone, the pain returned. It has never faded away since, though its severity is not constant: it ebbs and flows like a dark, suffocating tide. And whenever this overpowering wave reaches its peak, catching Alexius completely unawares - he comes up to the rickety wooden table below his window, and looks long and hard at the little black bottle: so round, so smooth, so welcoming. A few times, he even picked it up, feeling the cool glass underneath his fingertips. But, tantalizing though it was to gaze at that pure blackness, to savour the weight of the bottle in his hand, he always put it back. Not now, he told himself. Not today.  
  
And, ludicrous though it might sound, his reason for, time and again, rejecting the temptation of the poison is... always having something to look forward to. Some small, insignificant trifle that inevitably makes him eager to see the day through. And it always has to do with her. The Inquisitor. Yavanna. His unlikely elven friend.  
  
There have been times when he turned away from the poison because he remembered that he had not seen her that day, and realized that he was missing the smile she gave him as a greeting. There have been times when he was too busy doing research upon her request to even consider lingering over the bottle. There have been times when, utterly out of the blue, as the Southerners would say, he was visited by a recollection of an amusing story she told him, having just arrived from an adventure - and the shadows clouding his features were dispelled by a smile.  
  
And today as well, he did not occupy himself with gazing at the black bottle for too long: Yavanna is supposed to be back from the Emerald Graves at any moment. It is not the first trip she has made to the region - one of her favourite areas to explore, as she explained to him, both due to its natural beauty and the cultural connotation it bears for her people. And judging by her previous accounts, those dense, wild forests positively teem with ogres. How can he indulge his desire to uncork that bottle, if he has to make sure that the overly eager little elf did not end up stumbling into more trouble than she can handle?  
  
So, the bottle remains, still undisturbed on its table, while Alexius is away in Skyhold's library, trying to talk some sense into a group of young mages, who have gathered in a semi-circle around him. He caught one of them trying to perform a levitation spell to help one of the Inquisition workers with a heavy haul - a commendable pursuit, but executed completely wrong. Back home, Alexius had to fight tooth and claw against Imperial bureaucrats who were too busy with that endless war effort to realize that the Circle roofs were leaking, for Maker's sake - but it seems that here in the South, the education system for mages is even worse off. Most Circles that these young people come from were more about coercing the mages into submission than actually teaching them. And that is so painfully obvious. If he hadn't intervened in time, the foolish boy would have caved the worker's skull in, instead of assisting him. So naturally, a demonstration is in order - to make these Southern bumpkins understand how to use magic properly.  
  
Most of the youngsters seem slightly apprehensive - and Alexius can't really blame them, considering what plans the Venatori and the Elder One had for the mage rebellion. Some of them, like that long-faced elf, second to the right, probably remember Alexius from Redcliffe, sneering at Fiona, like a smug puppeteer adjusting the strings of his puppet. But still (even if he does say so himself) they cannot help but become invested in his impromptu lecture. And as Alexius watches their eyes light up with interest, he senses that old, now barely familiar feeling stirring inside of him. The prefect contentment - the sense of... belonging - that filled him in those bygone days in Minrathous, when, robes flapping, he strolled into the classroom and ascended on his tribune, facing an auditorium full of aspiring mages.  
  
'I trust you found this information useful,' he concludes, making a twirling gesture with his hand, to make the hovering, rustling books, which he has been lifting into the air by magic, slide back into place. 'Now I suggest we all return to our duties before someone catches us dawdling'.  
  
'Well, well, what a sight to behold,' a voice speaks from the background, slow and slightly teasing. 'Gereon Alexius in his home element'.  
  
'Dorian,' Alexius turns around to face his former apprentice, who is leaning leisurely against a bookcase. 'What else was I to do when confronted with such a flabbergasting lack of education?'  
  
'I am not disapproving, by no means,' the younger man says, choosing his words very carefully. 'I was just... pleasantly surprised; I never thought... never hoped that I would see you... so like your old self again'.  
  
'I am just trying to do what Felix wanted,' Alexius replies, his voice quiet and sincere. 'Be someone else other than just a grieving father'.  
  
'And you are making a fine job of it!' Dorian declares, with mock pomp. 'I shall take the liberty of saying: praised be the Inquisitor! This had to have been her doing, at least in part. I have never seen someone so bent on picking people up when they are lying in the dust; I am seriously considering making a bet with Varric that she will try to offer Corypheus a cup of tea and a soothing pat on his crusty red lyrium back!'.  
  
'Hi there!'  
  
As if summoned by magic, Lavellan suddenly appears on the scene, poking her head out of the door that leads to the staircase connecting the library and Solas' rotunda.  
  
Before his mind can decide whether it is proper or not, Alexius' lips draw apart in a smile.  
  
'Yavanna! You are back!' he says, watching her approach him and Dorian, with that familiar vivacious spring in her step. 'I hope the journey was a fruitful one'.  
  
'Oh, fruitful does not begin to describe it!' the elf grins. 'It was like all the local bears decided to come together and have a party! And we saw a dragon, too! Bull is itching to hunt it down, once we have better gear... He wants you to come see it, Dorian'.  
  
'For a Qunari spy, the man seems exceptionally eager to impress a "Vint", Dorian says smugly. 'I attribute it to my dazzling charm'.  
  
'Of course you do,' Alexius mutters, rolling up his eyes.  
  
The two men and the elf exchange a small laugh (which, in Alexius' case, sounds almost genuinely lighthearted). Then, the look on Lavellan's face becomes serious - grave, even - as she rummages through the pockets of her vest and produces a carefully folded slip of paper.  
  
'Uh, Dorian...' she says, rubbing the back of her neck, which makes her look like a miniature elven version if Commander Cullen in the middle of the other two advisors' heated argument about 'real Antivan parties'.  
  
'The real reason why I dropped by was to... give you this letter'.  
  
'Oh!' Dorian grins, taking the little missive from the Inquisitor but preferring to jest a little before he looks at its contents. 'Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposition from some Antivan dowager?'  
  
Lavellan shakes her head.  
  
'It's from your father. I was on my way to check on Varric and see if he has any news from Hawke and her Warden contact, when I bumped into Mother Giselle. Apparently, she's been busy arranging some sort of meeting...'  
  
'Of course,' Alexius remarks acidly. 'Of course it had to be some random intermediary from the Chantry... It would not do for the head of House Pavus to correspond with someone who was officially declared traitor'.  
  
Dorian's eyebrows first soar upwards, and then slide down into a frown.  
  
'Don't tell me this was your idea, Gereon,' he says, seeming to push every word forcibly through his teeth. 'I was just beginning to like you again'.  
  
'I... may have taken the liberty of penning a letter to your father - shortly after our conversation at camp, as soon as I was given access to writing supplies,' Alexius explains, studying the younger man's tense body language. 'The Spymaster double-checked it, of course, and did not raise any objections. I do not know the full story behind the rift between you and Halward - but I know what it feels like... to lose a son... So I urged him to try and build bridges; it felt like the right thing to do'.  
  
'With all due respect, Gereon,' Dorian says, his nostrils flaring. 'What you feel is completely irrelevant. This wayward son prefers to stay lost'.  
  
Alexius tries to speak, looking both worried and slightly hurt - but Dorian does not let him.  
  
'I apologize,' he says abruptly, taking a deep breath. 'That was unworthy of me. What is done is done; I suppose I might as well see what the great and mighty Halward Pavus has to say. This day can hardly get any worse, can it?'  
  
He unfolds the letter that Lavellan has brought, and skims through it, his frown growing deeper and deeper as his eyes dart rapidly from the beginning to the end of each line. He is about halfway through when he lets out an indignant outcry.  
  
"I know my son!" he quotes, curling his lips in distaste. 'What the man knows about me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical!'  
  
Then, he looks up at Alexius and adds, his voice bitter and disdainful,  
  
'Apparently, even your superb oratorical skills could not convince him to besmirch his precious reputation by personally speaking to the likes of me. He is sending some sort of "family retainer" in his stead. To pass on a message. Or maybe to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter in a potato sack'.  
  
'Mother Giselle was also worried this could be a Venatori trap,' Lavellan pipes in, her blue eyes rounded. 'And now I am beginning to worry about it myself'.  
  
Alexius sighs.  
  
'I am sorry. I thought... I thought something might come out of it'.  
  
'You know...' Dorian remarks, beginning to pace back and forth among the bookcases. 'You know, I think I will go and meet this family retainer. Take Yavanna here with me - you too, Gereon, because you started this mess. If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone - we are good at that. If it's not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his... wits' end'.  
  
'Oh goodness... There does seem to be so much bad blood between you and your family!' Lavellan remarks, clearly upset by Dorian's bitter tone.  
  
Dorian throws back his head and laughs a long, loud, but mirthless laugh.  
  
'Hah! Bad blood! Interesting turn of phrase!'  
  
Alexius, who has still not taken his eyes off his apprentice, starts and reaches forward, an unspoken question hanging in the air between him and Dorian. The younger man jerks his head and hastens to switch the subject.  
  
'I wonder how we can smuggle you into Redcliffe, Gereon; I can't imagine the locals will be too happy to see you, not after all your Venatori antics. And there is the ever-vigilant Inquisition Spymaster to be tricked as well...'  
  
'Actually,' Lavellan says brightly, 'Leliana is too busy dealing with the Denerim crisis. King Alistair is an old friend of hers, and she is sending her finest agents to protect him; she will not be concerned with much else for quite some time, I think. I will just ask Fiona for permission to give Gereon a short leave; I am sure she won't mind. And we can give him one of those hooded scout outfits to wear so that nobody can recognize him!'  
  
'And I am sure he will look quite smashing in it,' Dorian snorts. 'Well then, you should better get to it. I will wait for you in the courtyard'.  
  
With an energetic nod, Lavellan ambles off to find Fiona; Alexius follows a little way behind - but before he leaves the library completely, he gives Dorian a final, intent look, and asks him sternly in Tevene,  
  
'Sanguis malus - quid fuit?'  
  
But the younger mage does not answer, pretending that looking at his reflection in the bookcase glass pane and smoothing over his moustache is far more important.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not talk much on the way to Redcliffe. Dorian is plunged in thought, the same deep frown almost never leaving his face; Alexius looks apologetic and extremely uncomfortable in the scout outfit that Lavellan... 'borrowed' for him from the clothes line behind the barracks; and the Inquisitor herself keeps glancing anxiously from one man to the other, sometimes trying to draw their attention to something uplifting, like a baby fennec fox watching them from the side of the road - but not succeeding, not even once.  
  
They travel from Skyhold to the Inquisition's first outpost in the Hinterlands; from there, they hitch a ride on a merchant's cart en route down the King's Road (which is quite busy now that there are no ambushes by rebel mages and crazed Templars). The cart's owner, a portly, cheerful-looking man with a small curling beard, is more than happy to help out 'agents of the Inquisition', and spends a greater share of the journey chattering on about how 'them weirdo cultists' from the mountains took the stick out of their collective bottoms and started feeding and healing refugees - all because the 'blessed Herald lady told 'em to'. Lavellan listens to the merchant ramble with a modest smile, not revealing her identity even when, in a tone of most fervent, sincere reassurance, he informs her and the other two passengers that the chosen of Andraste descended upon the land in a beam of golden light. Nor does she try to contradict the merchant when he turns around, points at her tattooed face, reins tied around his hand, and says,  
  
'Looks like the lady is putting your wild woodland tribes to good use, too! She is generous like that!'.  
  
This offhand remark makes the two Tevinters snap out of their broody state and exchange exasperated looks; but Lavellan merely nods politely and says,  
  
'She certainly tries to be'.  
  
Soon enough after that, the carriage creaks to a halt at the bottom of the path leading to Redcliffe's longsuffering old windmill. The elf and the two humans get off, bid goodbye to the merchant (who does not seem to have any reservations about accepting a handful of silvers for the fare from a 'wild woodland tribeswoman') and set out along the winding alley towards the local tavern. Some of the passersby, who must still vividly remember the turbulent events surrounding the arrival and departure of the rebel mages, halt in their tracks to take a closer look at the little travelling party on its way to the Gull and Lantern. But none of them seems to make a connection between the stiff-looking, aging scout, who keeps grumbling under his breath as the rim of his hood flaps before his eyes and the jacket pinches mercilessly under his arms, and the sinister magister who took over the arl's castle and was all too ready to rule from it with an iron fist. They do look sort of similar, especially around the nose and chin - but this scout fellow utterly lacks a cloud of dark smoke trailing after him and the bloodthirsty red glow in his eyes, just like the slender, smiling Dalish elf who walks by his side lacks a glowing halo over her head and the flowing golden hair that the Herald of Andraste is sure to have.  
  
When they arrive at the Gull and Lantern, it seems suspiciously deserted. The three travellers are almost dazed by the stark contrast between the everyday bustle of the village streets outside and the stuffy silence beyond the tavern door.  
  
'Oh dear,' Lavellan mutters, groping behind her back nervously to check if her daggers are still there. 'It looks like this is a trap, after all'.  
  
'Or this retainer paid the local beverage enthusiasts to vacate the premises', Dorian remarks, peering into the murk ahead. 'To have this... meeting in private. This definitely sounds like something my father would instruct him to do. I wonder how much it cost the man to keep the place ready just in case I'll show'.  
  
'The cost does not matter here'.  
  
With these words, a tall, dark figure steps out from the back of the tavern. When it comes close enough to the dim, hazy ray of light flowing through the window, it becomes apparent that the three companions are facing a dark-haired man around Alexius' age, in a gilded robe that is far too lavish to be worn by any family retainer... Unless he was disguised for some reason, but that does not seem to be the case.  
  
After a long, hard look at the robed stranger, Dorian takes a staggering step back towards the door.  
  
 _'Father,'_ he breathes, his voice sounding like a hiss.   
  
Alexius, too, sizes the man up from head to foot.  
  
'You did come yourself, Halward,' he addresses him, frowning. Like Dorian, he has not switched to Tevene, perhaps as a show of trust towards the Inquisitor - who is growing more and more anxious as the air between the three mages seems to crackle with tension.  
  
'Why the charade?'  
  
'If I was direct from the start, Dorian would never have agreed to this,' the stranger explains, cringing instinctively at the sight of Alexius' outlandish attire. 'And pray do not sing too much praise to yourself, Gereon: I was considering this even before I received your message'.  
  
'And what is "this" exactly, Father?' Dorian cuts in impatiently, his voice rising in pitch with every next word. 'Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?'   
  
Halward sighs and shakes his head from side to side.  
  
'This is how it has always been'.  
  
'Did you arrive in Ferelden just to exchange snappy banter, Halward?' Alexius supports Dorian, folding his arms - as much as his scout outfit allows him. 'If you sincerely want to change your... family situation - talk to your son'.  
  
'Yes,' Dorian echoes him, his face twisting into a scowl and his voice dripping with so much venom that he seems to bring Lavellan into a fearful stupor. 'Talk to me, Father! Tell me how _mystified_ you are by my anger!'  
  
'Dorian, there is no need to - ' Halward attempts to silence his son, but he ignores him, turning to face Alexius and Lavellan, bitterness mixing with pain in his expression.  
  
'Now that you are both here,' he says, his chest rising and falling as he tries to contain himself, 'You had better know the truth. Especially you, Gereon, since you apparently were under the impression that you were doing us a favour by bringing us together'.  
  
'What's wrong, Dorian?' Lavellan asks breathlessly, managing to overcome her fear. 'I have never seen you this upset before!'  
  
Dorian gives her a crooked smile.  
  
'I prefer the company of men,' he says simply. 'My father disapproves'.  
  
The elf blinks, genuinely confused. In her eyes, Dorian might have just as well declared that his father makes a fuss over him preferring not to put any salt into his food. However, she is quick to remind herself of a confrontation she had with her own Mamae when she demanded that the clan storyteller share more fables where the shemlen die a horrible death for bringing the elves harm.  
  
'Why would anyone wanna listen to stories like that?' little Yavanna asked her mother, her eyes becoming slightly tearful. 'I would never, ever enjoy stories where people get hurt - not even if they are bad people'.  
  
'Stop thinking that everyone else in the world is like you, you selfish little brat!' Mamae scolded her - and her words have stayed with Lavellan to this very day.  
  
'I am too selfish,' she reminds herself in a stern whisper. 'I think everyone thinks like me. That is not right'.  
  
Then, she speaks up,  
  
'So, uhh... That's a problem in Tevinter, then?'   
  
'Only if you are trying to live up to an impossible standard,' Dorian says sarcastically, giving his father a dark look. 'You see, my elven friend - I am sure Gereon here will confirm that - every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage. The perfect body, the perfect mind, the perfect leader. This means that every perceived flaw, every aberration, is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden'.  
  
Halward draws up to his full height and responds stiffly,  
  
'This display is uncalled for'.  
  
'Oh no, it _is_ called for!' Dorian retorts. 'You called for it by luring me here! You - and you!'  
  
He points an accusing finger first at Halward, then at Alexius. The latter knits his eyebrows even closer than before, three deep vertical lines imprinting into his forehead.  
  
'This cannot be the whole story,' he says slowly. 'I refuse to believe that the cause for all this animosity is merely trying to hide who Dorian chooses to sleep with'.  
  
'You are right, Gereon,' Dorian confirms, clenching his jaw. 'You made a mistake by suggesting this meeting, but at least now you are catching on why. This is not the whole story. Not by far'.  
  
Halward makes a jerking movement with his hand, as if trying to draw his son closer to him.  
  
'Dorian, please! If you will only listen to me!'  
  
'Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?' Dorian demands loudly, leaning forward slightly and closing his fingers into a tight fist.  
  
'My father taught me to hate blood magic,' he goes on, shooting a glance at Alexius over his shoulder. "The resort of the weak mind". Those were his words. And yet - '  
  
He turns back to Halward, who purses his lips together, as if trying not to cry out.  
  
'What was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?'  
  
'No,' Alexius mouths shakily, understanding seeming to dawn on him. 'Halward... You wouldn't!'  
  
Dorian confirms his suspicions with a swift nod, unable to speak further. When he finally does find the strength to continue, his voice grows brittle,  
  
'He tried to... _change_ me!'  
  
Halward looks into his son's eyes, as they dim over with tears of hurt and anger, and barely manages to utter a short, hoarse phrase,  
  
'I only wanted what was best for you...'  
  
'No!' Dorian spits, striding towards him and almost burning his face with an indignant glare. 'You wanted what was best for _you!_ For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!'  
  
With that, he falls back to where Lavellan stands, and allows her to wrap her arms around him in a warm, soothing embrace. This gives Alexius an opportunity to take to the centre of the stage - and that he does, looming over Halward with his face twisted and ashen pale.  
  
'You!' he spits, his eyes flashing in a way that would have completely convinced the good people of Redcliffe that, despite his outfit, he is still the same magister that kicked their arl out into the street.   
  
'You wanted to perform a blood ritual - on your own son! To do what - twist his nature? Make him bed the woman you chose? Or did you merely want to wipe his mind? Reduce him to a blank-eyed thrall completely in your power? What does it matter if he can't think for himself, so long as his ability to give you grandchildren is not compromised?'  
  
'You are hardly the one to judge me, Gereon,' Halward says, a little shakily. 'I heard a rumour that you joined the Venatori because they promised some sort of miracle cure for your Felix'.  
  
With something between a groan and a growl, Alexius raises one hand into the air, in a motion resembling the gesture he made while teaching young mages to levitate various objects. Only this time, the object is not inanimate.  
  
'Don't. You. Dare. Compare. Yourself. To. Me!' he hisses in rage, while Halward kicks his legs desperately above the floor, choked by the hold of his magic.  
  
'Don't. You. Dare! I would give the world to have what you have! A healthy, thriving son, brilliant, quick-witted, a progressive thinker! You should have been proud of him - you should have cherished the happiness that not everyone can boast! And instead, you took him for granted - what he is wasn't enough for you, so you tried to destroy him!'  
  
Somewhere along the way, Alexius' angry scream turns into a sob; his spell weakens, and Halward drops back to the ground, landing with a heavy thud. Catching his breath, Alexius looks down at the man sprawled at his feet, and parts his lips, as if preparing to spit at him.  
  
'I was such a fool!' he says. 'I looked at Dorian and I thought, here is a son who has been sundered from his father like Felix was sundered from me. I have to help them, lest their family be torn apart as mine was. But it turns out I got it all wrong'.  
  
'There was still... hope... for my family...' Halward moans, attempting to get up. 'You... wouldn't understand... Your son was... not...'  
  
The fire of fury in Alexius' eyes flares up even brighter - a reflection of a crackling golden orb that separates itself from his sweating palm.  
  
'There was nothing wrong with my son,' he draws a long, uneven breath through his nose. 'His talent was not magic, it was mathematics; and I did all I could to help him foster it. I let him be himself - I would never, ever lay a finger on him to try to change him! Because I loved my son - I loved _my Felix,_ not some vague ideal of what Felix was supposed to become!'  
  
By the end of the last sentence, his voice is so loud that he can barely control it - or the fire magic swelling in his grasp. Dorian, who has hereto been petrified by the shock of his former mentor's outburst, darts forward and grabs Alexius by the wrist.  
  
'Gereon! Careful with that!'  
  
As Dorian pushes Alexius away from his father, the fiery orb is set loose. Drawing a wild, zigzagging trajectory, it whizzes across the room - and finally hits a large stack of wine casks.  
  
'Well,' Lavellan says in a small voice, using the favourite expression of her friend Varric. 'Shit'.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was rather scared about posting this part, because it is apparent that my Inquisitor has encouraged Dorian to reconcile with his father, which many Dragon Age fans are vehemently against. (Plus, Dorian's story is sort of sidelined by Alexius'). But I did my utmost to treat the situation as respectfully as possible and to make it clear that neither I myself nor my Lavellan support what Halward tried to do.

In a matter of moments, the scorching wave of flame spreads from the casks up to the ceiling, eating through the wooden rafters and racing towards the oil lamps that hang down over the tables. Before long, the entire inn turns into a whirlpool of blinding red and yellow light and dancing flame tongues. The air shimmers and melts, scorching the faces of the elf and the humans like boiling water.   
  
With a long, wheezing cough, Alexius glances at the door and then, back at Halward, who is still squirming weakly on the floor; after about a second of hesitation, he bends down and pulls the disgraced Pavus Senior to his feet. Blinking rapidly as dense, acrid smoke fills the room, the two magisters stagger forward to where Dorian and Lavellan are still standing, anxious, impatient, reaching forward so they can grab the older men and run out of the building.  
  
By sheer chance (or perhaps, the will of whichever gods are watching over this mess of a world), Halward happens to look up. And just as he does so, he charges forward and wraps his arms around his son, pulling him to the floor before a loosened wooden beam comes crushing down upon them, showering them in red-hot embers. Dorian misses the impact completely; Halward, however, is slightly less fortunate: the cindered end of the beam knocks him on the head, leaving a glaring burn mark and making him lose consciousness.  
  
'Well, that was unexpected,' Dorian says huskily, trying to fight back the smoke and return to his habitual mocking manner.  
  
He lowers himself by his father's side, preparing a healing spell, but Alexius calls out to him,  
  
'Now is not the time! I need your help!'  
  
'Of course you do!' Dorian says, getting to his feet and doing his best not to cough. 'Fixing your messes is becoming part of my job here'.  
  
Alexius chooses to disregard this remark and, as soon as the younger Pavus steps away from his father, casts a rippling, greenish barrier spell on the unconscious man. It rises over Halward like a small dome of enchanted glass, shielding him from the encroaching flames. Lavellan also happens to be within the area of the spell's effect; she does not seem overly pleased with this, moving her palms along the barrier like one of those Orlesian mimes, and mouthing something silently. By the looks of it, the exclamation that her lips shape, over and over, is 'Hey! I wanna help!'.   
  
But the two mages are already hard at work. Standing side by side just like they did in the old days, apprentice and teacher putting their heads together to bend the elements of nature to their will, they move their hands in unison, as if in a slow, elaborate dance. Soon enough, their circular gestures conjure up a leaden-dark, swirling thunder cloud, which floats above the raging flames, and then tears apart, setting loose a torrential stream of water. Soon, the burning inn turns into a sweltering greenhouse, cloaked in vapour, wet and dense like some sort of milky cream soup. To counter this, the two mages unleash another spell, making silvery patterns of time slither up the charred walls and giant spikes of ice shoot towards the ceiling. The air grows cooler, and the creamy mist condenses into a flurry of soft snowflakes. Dorian and his mentor keep amplifying the spell's magnitude, and by the time they finish casting and lean against each other, too exhausted to care about who messed up and how badly, the Gull and Lantern is transformed into a winter wonderland, with a thick, sparkling layer of ice covering everything, from the floorboards to the chairs and the remnants of the burned-up wine casks.  
  
Just as this time, the barrier wears off. With no magical obstacles barring her way, Lavellan shuffles hastily towards the two men and (as should have been expected) draws them both into a group hug.  
  
'This was amazing!' she cries out. 'You were amazing!'  
  
'We were, weren't we?' Dorian says, managing quite a convincing chuckle. 'Even though the cause for our amazingness might have been avoided'.  
  
He looks meaningfully at Alexius, who steps away from his apprentice and his elven friend, and says, pressing his hand against his eyes,  
  
'I... There is hardly any excuse for acting the way I did... Losing my temper like that - it was most unworthy. I did not mean to harm Halward, not... permanently - but what he did... What he did was so wrong...'  
  
'I think he knows that,' Dorian remarks quietly, returning to his father's side and setting out to revive him, gentle blue light spreading from his fingertips. 'It's just hard for him to admit.'  
  
'He must still care for you, deep down,' Lavellan says, kneeling by Dorian's side and gazing into his father's face. It is as deeply lined as Alexius' - could some of those lines have come from worrying about his son? From hurting over he wanted to do to him?   
  
Dorian makes a small, snort-like sound.  
  
'In his own way'.  
  
'That blood ritual sounds like a horrible, horrible thing,' the elf goes on, 'And I understand if you can't patch things up with him. I try to stay friends with everyone no matter what... But it wasn't me who got treated like that by her own family, was it? It is not my place to make an important decision like that instead of you. I just want you to stop suffering - and I think that it will help you rest a little easier if you don't leave things like this. If you have one more talk with your father'.  
  
'I... I suppose getting some closure wouldn't hurt,' Dorian muses, mechanically brushing some specks of soot off his father's cheek.  
  
Brought back to consciousness by the healing spell, Halward stirs and opens his eyes.  
  
'Dorian,' he whispers, his parched lips hardly tearing apart.  
  
'Tell me, Father,' Dorian says earnestly, locking his gaze with Halward's, 'Tell me why you came'.  
  
'I... I came to find my son...' Halward replies, trying to shape his mouth into a smile. 'I... I had a son once, you know... A son who trusted me; a trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him - to... hear his voice again... to ask him to... forgive me...'  
  
'A forgiveness you will have to work very hard to earn, Halward Pavus,' Alexius says grimly, keeping his voice as quiet as possible in order not to draw Dorian's attention. 'A heroic rescue from a falling piece of wood is just a beginning'.  
  
His next remark, addressed to Lavellan, is a little louder,  
  
'Come, Yavanna. This is a conversation better to be had in private'.  
  
As they step out of the tavern's black-and-white carcass, Lavellan and Alexius are greeted by a whole crowd of villagers, who must have gathered around the burning building but were too scared by the flashes of magic inside to investigate any further. There is what writers like Varric might call a (heavily) pregnant silence, as the people of Redcliffe watch the suspicious 'scout' that has emerged out of the ruins before their very eyes. With his disguise in disarray, they manage to get a proper look at his face, and it is not long before a male voice cries out,  
  
'It's him! That magister bloke! The one that took Arl Teagan's castle!'  
  
Another voice joins in, this time a woman's,  
  
'Blighted mage, coming back here, burning down our village! I thought the Inquisition had him hanged!'  
  
This angry, shrill croak sets off a whole rumble of unrest, rolling through the crowd like the first, warning thunderclap that heralds a storm. Alexius remains silent, watching the bristling wall of raised arms and clenched fists before him with a small sneer barely touching his lips. Lavellan, by contrast, is far less stoic; when someone in the background picks up something suspiciously resrmbling a pitchfork, she gasps in alarm and steps forward, spreading out her arms.  
  
'Goodness! Please don't get... violent! We are all on the same side now!'  
  
'He's a magister from the cursed Imperium!' someone cries out. 'He drinks the blood of Andrastian bairns!'  
  
Lavellan's eyes almost pop out of their sockets in a mixture of shock and amusement.  
  
'He does no such thing!' she protests. 'And neither do my people, for that matter! Look!'  
  
She extends her left arm and opens the palm of her hand, allowing the villagers to catch a glimpse of the flickering fragment of the Fade burned into her flesh.  
  
'If you have to find some outlandish story to believe in, here is what they call the boon of your human prophet! It turns out that people trust me a lot more if I show them this - so trust me when I tell you: this man may have made mistakes in the past, but he works for the Inquisition now! His magic serves us well - just like your Chantry teaches! And it has just served you, too: the fire in the tavern was an accident, and my friend cast a spell to put it out! Everything is all right now! My people will see to it that the Gull and Lantern is rebuilt; I will lend them a hand myself, too - and I promise it will be better and cozier than before!'  
  
The sight of the Anchor, combined with a promise of a new tavern, seems to appease the crowd; after a few more grousing remarks, the villagers disperse. As the approach to the inn becomes deserted, Lavellan shakes her head and mutters,  
  
'Leliana had better pull off that mission for the King of Ferelden. Otherwise we risk becoming his least favourite people, for making mess after mess in the place where he grew up'.  
  
Alexius eyes her incredulously, with his eyebrows arched.  
  
'You never rest, do you? One moment, you are comforting a man whose whole life was almost irrevocably shattered by his own father...  And the next, you are talking down an ignorant mob and taking the side of an old fool who thinks that blowing up a building is an acceptable way to win an argument'.  
  
'Aw Gereon, don't talk of yourself like that,' Lavellan says to him, titling her head to one shoulder and smiling. 'I really, really hope that Serah Halward is sorry for wanting to use blood magic on his son - but for all my hopes, I could see clear as day how hurt Dorian was by what he had done... And how hurt you were'.  
  
Alexius casts down his eyes, locking his fingers behind his back, half-lost in thought.  
  
'You can try to ask Dorian about the ritual once we get back to Skyhold,' he says, with a faint mournful note in his voice. 'Perhaps when he recovers from all of this, he will be in the mood to tell you. But as of this moment, I can hazard a guess that the procedure would have entailed a high risk of the poor boy becoming very close to the victims of the Southern Chantry's abhorrent Rite of Tranquility... If not worse. Accepting this risk, all for the sake of protecting the reputation of your house - that would mean treating your child like a tool, an object, rather than a person...'  
  
There is a little tick in the corner of his mouth, as he adds,  
  
'Felix made an improper joke on a similar subject, during my... very last conversation with him. Which brings me to a conversation that I probably owe you. It is not an excuse for throwing fire balls around, of course. It is an explanation'.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other stories, I plan to further expand on the backstory bits (sourced from the World of Thedas book) that I mentioned here.

Alexius looks up at Lavellan, and then motions her to follow him down the bank of the lake, closer to the stone pier.  
  
'There is another reason why I was so ready to crush Halward,' he tells his elven companion, walking slowly towards the water's very edge and gazing at the hypnotic motion of the anchored boats, which keep rising and falling with the gentle, sleepy waves.  
  
'You did not get a chance to become too closely acquainted with Felix, outside of his... noble attempt to untangle the Venatori web. The thing about him was... Like I mentioned at the inn, his main talent was not magic. And among the families that, as Dorian so aptly put it, strive to distill the perfect mage, that, too, is a shameful flaw'.  
  
Here, Alexius hunches his shoulders slightly - perhaps it is the cold breeze coming from the surface of the lake, but Lavellan is not too sure.  
  
'My father grew more and more outraged, as years went by and Felix still remained incapable of casting most of the basic spells that his peers had mastered when they were still toddlers. Oh, the colourful vocabulary that the old man used to describe my boy - and his mother, who had apparently tainted our precious bloodline... Eventually, he must have grown weary of tolerating a "runt" in our midst, and one day, my little Felix received a pretty, colourful cake for his birthday - a cake that turned out to be poisoned'.  
  
Lavellan pulls at the folds over her scarf, as though the cheerfully green strap of cloth has suddenly begun to strangle her.  
  
'He... He tried to kill Felix?' she asks tearfully.  
  
'Yes,' Alexius says, now beginning to shiver (again, the cause does not quite seem to be the cold).  
  
'Perhaps his master plan also included killing Livia, my wife - and then getting me to wed someone else. Someone who would... correct my mistake of marrying a dear friend instead of a pedigree match. Someone capable of producing better quality fruit for the family tree. But... But Livia countered his schemes before they could be brought to fruition... Pun not intended. A short while after the cake incident, Master Alexius Senior suffered a tragic accident whilst bathing in the pool in the courtyard of his summer villa. I am told that marble can become quite slippery when splashed with water - especially if the effect is amplified by a frost spell'.  
  
The scarf seems to continue constricting Lavellan's throat, for by now, she is ready to claw a large hole right through it.  
  
'Do... Do... D-do...' she is so struck by what Alexius has confided in her that she begins to stutter. 'Do you mean to say...'  
  
'My father tried to kill my son, so my wife killed him first,' Alexius summarizes, the wry carelessness of his tone resembling Dorian's. 'Ours was considered quite a happy family, by Tevinter standards'.  
  
'Were you... angry...' Lavellan asks cautiously, letting go of her (now fraying) scarf and trying to take Alexius' hand instead. 'Were you angry with your wife after what she did? He was still your father, after all.'  
  
'I... I don't know,' Alexius confesses. 'I suppose the loss stung at first - but eventually, I just felt relieved that my boy was no longer in any danger. I...'  
  
He bites into his lower lip and inhales deeply. From the look on his face, it becomes apparent that he draws every word out of himself with great difficulty.  
  
'I loved Livia, and I trusted her to do what was best to preserve our family. I doubt the attempts on Felix's life would have ceased if she had not... rooted out the cause. And I would even go so far as to say that... That by the end, the man Livia killed to save our son... he stopped feeling like my father'.  
  
'Oh Gereon,' Lavellan says, her voice turning into a stifled squeak. 'I am so, so sorry...'  
  
Alexius looks at her, appearing to have been slightly taken aback by his own candor. Inappropriate as it is in this situation, the expression on his face suddenly reminds Lavellan of the stare Cassandra gave her when, as the Inquisitor and the Seeker were sharing a tent during an expedition, the former woke the latter up to take the next watch, and informed her that she had been muttering things about Varric's chest hair in her sleep.  
  
'I... We... Livia and I never talked about this to anyone...' he mouths, turning back to gaze at the waves. 'Not even to Felix. Or to each other. I am not entirely certain why I chose to break the silence now - after all these years of carrying it inside, like...'  
  
His eyes darken.  
  
'Like a vial of poison'.  
  
'I am glad you did talk about it,' Lavellan confesses, her voice still quivering. 'It can't have been easy. Your family did not deserve something like that to happen'.  
  
Alexius sighs in despondent resignation.  
  
'Now it appears that the same is happening to Dorian and Halward'.  
  
'It may not be too late for them,' Lavellan says, glancing back at the ruined inn. 'If Serah Halward tries to change...'  
  
She is still looking at the charred building while uttering this sentence - so she does not see the fondness in Alexius' eyes as he finds her wandering hand and weaves his fingers through hers. But even though they do not look each other in the eye, this fleeting, gentle touch seems to calm down them both. He is no longer frowning, appearing more at peace with himself than before this conversation, as if he has torn out a thorn that has been festering in his heart's flesh for a long, long time - and she no longer looks like she is on the verge of bursting into tears.  
  
'The Herald of Andraste,' Alexius says quietly. 'Ever hopeful, ever trusting. It is a good thing that your advisors are doing a half-decent job identifying threats, or else you would have been stabbed in the back long ago'.  
  
'My advisors can't stop me from playing cards with Qunari spies or holding hands with magisters,' Lavellan retorts mischievously, grinning back at him.  
  
Alexius stiffens.  
  
'That... That was probably improper,' he says, trying to withdraw his hand.  
  
'Aw come now! We have held hands several times already! Or have you not noticed?' Lavellan grabs his hand again and shakes it. 'That's what friends do! They hold on to each other when one of them needs comforting!'  
  
'Friends...' Alexius echoes, regarding his surroundings thoughtfully. 'Last time we were here, who could have thought we would come to call each other thus? He could have thought that I would trust my... former adversary enough to spill my family's deepest, darkest secrets?'  
  
'Things do change, Gereon,' Lavellan smiles. 'Things change, and people change. And I am doing my best to make sure that the change is always for the better'.  
  
At this moment, a familiar figure comes into view, striding towards them along the path to the shore. It is Dorian, still a little battered- up after the fiery escape, and with a distracted look on his face.  
  
Seeing him, Lavellan throws up her arms and races forward, swooping him into an embrace (Third for today? Or fourth? It is hard to keep count), before he can as much as say a word.  
  
'These hugs of yours are still a lot to get used to,' Dorian mutters.  
  
Still, by now he has experienced enough of the Inquisitor's displays of friendship to do his best and hug her back.  
  
'Where is your father?' Lavellan asks, craning her neck to look past Dorian's shoulder.  
  
'He stayed behind,' he explains. 'He is back on his feet now, but we preferred not to... leave the Hinterlands in each other's company. There is still much to think about'.  
  
'Are you all right?' Lavellan whispers in concern.  
  
'No,' Dorian says frankly. 'Not really. Maker knows what you must think of me after that... display'.  
  
'I think you are very brave,' she tells him, with utmost conviction.  
  
She has no way of knowing it, but the look that Dorian gives her, his eyes widening in surprise and gratitude and the corners of his lips curling up in a hesitant smile, is very much like the look he gave Alexius, many years ago, on that night when the two men crossed paths in a house of ill repute somewhere in the elven slums of Minrathous.  
  
Apparently, Alexius, who was visiting the city on business, had intended to clear his head by walking down an evening street, worn out after another day of fruitless auditions for a worthy apprentice. Whereupon he attracted the attention of what he would later describe as an 'intricately inked' elven woman, who invited him to 'relax' - an offer that, tired and frustrated and slightly curious about his fellow magisters' favourite indulgence, he could not bring himself to refuse. Whereas Dorian, who had just escaped from yet another stuffy boarding school that his father had tried to lock him in, was cruising around that delightful cesspit on a prolonged drinking binge.  
  
Alexius, that civil, impeccably dressed scholar, who looked both disgusted and mesmerized by sweaty bodies and faux feathers and flaking glitter all around him, might have refused to have anything to do with a cheeky, hopelessly intoxicated boy, who reclined lazily among the thickly embroidered pillows on a sofa, his two-day-old, wine-stained shirt torn open on his chest, and brazenly offered the older man to 'share' the doe-eyed male elven dancer that was balancing on his lap. He might have turned away, and gone on about his business. But he did not.  
  
Never making good on the promise to 'relax' that he had given to his tattooed guide, Alexius instead took Dorian with him, to his city mansion, where he brought him back to his senses, with the invaluable aid of countless cups of black tea and a generous dose of ice magic. And after Dorian emerged from the drunken haze just enough to formulate coherent thoughts, Alexius sat by his bedside - and he listened.  
  
He let the boy speak, in a loud, feverishly hasty voice, about everything that had been building up within him, burning him on the inside as if his chest had been filled with bitter bile. He let the boy speak about being trapped in his own home, his entire self reduced to his father's expectations of him. About wondering what it would have felt like, to have a family that was a family, to have parents that were actual parents, instead of two strangers forced to tolerate each other, one too consumed by his own ambition, the other too addled by drink to care. About being plagued by a constant feeling of discontent that refused to go away...  
  
He let the boy speak through the whole night - until finally, as the greenish-yellow streak of dawn touched the dark sky over Minrathous, Dorian fell silent, and looked into Alexius' eyes... And realized that, for the first time in his life, his desperate voice had not fallen on deaf ears.  
  
The man before him had heard every single word out of his hung-over rant; he had heard and understood and processed it inside his mind. It actually mattered to him what Dorian had to say. The revelation, novel as it was exhilarating (and slightly daunting, for he was far more accustomed to being dismissed and silenced by those who 'knew better'), brought a sincere, profoundly moved smile to his face.  
  
And this is precisely the kind of smile that he is now sharing with Lavellan. Followed by this day's fourth (fifth?) hug, this time instigated by Dorian himself.  
  
After holding on to her Tevinter friend for a while, Lavellan unlocks the embrace and, holding Dorian by the hand and leading him up to Alexius, declares,  
  
'You two have been through far, far too much! What you need is a good, thick layer of blankets and a nice hot meal'.  
  
'I was about to suggest drinking ourselves into a stupor,' Dorian remarks, returning to his usual nonchalant manner. 'It has been that sort of day'.  
  
'To do any drinking, we will have to rebuild the tavern first,' Alexius points out. 'And I would prefer to be involved in the process. It is the least I can do, after all the... disasters that occurred in this hapless settlement because of me'.  
  
'Oooh, working together for the good of the people!' Lavellan chirps. 'I know just the song for the occasion!'


	5. Chapter 5

Leliana raises her eyebrows, as though not quite able to believe the report that she is reading. The message has been penned in Scout Harding's handwriting - round, sprawling, and somewhat clumsy (after all, the friendly dwarf qualified as an Inquisition scout mostly thanks to her knowledge of the wilderness rather than mastery of the letters). And it reads as follows,  
  
 ** _Lady Nightingale,_**  
  
 ** _Turns out we didn't have to worry so much! That magister fellow had not made a run for it after all! He was with the Inquisitor, just like Enchanter Fiona reassured us._**  
  
 ** _Our people spotted them in the Hinterlands, together with Master Dorian. They were - and that was so wonderful, I must have grinned for a whole minute! - they were working together with the locals to rebuild the village tavern, which had apparently burned down after some mishap with the lamps they used for lighting. Fortunately, the tavern had been, as they said, booked for a private dinner of some sort, so nobody got hurt._**  
  
 ** _Anyway. That was really impressive, the thing the magister and Master Dorian did with their spells, moving the timber from the Inquisition's logging site like it was all just a bunch of chicken feathers flying into the air. The magic did not last for long, and it must have required IMMENSE willpower to pull through (if you looked at the way those two men strained and sweated), but it still helped a lot._**  
  
 ** _But when I said they were working together with the people in Redcliffe, I was not actually too truthful. The villagers had to think all this magic was slightly creepy, at first - because they kept away most of the time, watching from afar with that screwy look on their faces like they had just smelled some bad meat. Until Her Worship scolded them - you know, how she usually does. We are all friends, she said. That is not the way to behave around your friends! Friends should give each other a hand!_**  
  
 ** _They were all put to shame after that, and started helping the mages. Her Worship joined in, too, singing one of her happy working songs - the same one she sang while cleaning up the back of the courtyard, where the stables are now. The one that goes 'I've got everything that I need right in front of me' and so on._**  
  
 ** _And then... Then the Arl's men came and kicked us all out. They just marched in, with halberds and all, right in the middle of the most cheerful part of Her Worship's song, and made everyone freeze, statue-like, and fall completely silent. It turns out that Arl Teagan almost blew his top when he learned that the same person who'd forced him out into the street was back again, and, as the chief of his guard explained to us, he did not care if the 'Tevinter presence' in his lands was approved by the Inquisition. He wanted us out, mages, scouts, and Her Worship, too - so out we went. Now the locals will have to finish working on their tavern by themselves... And I have a special mission assigned to me by Her Worship: find that fellow who supplies us with jars of bees, and ask him if he has any honey left. Because we are going to send Arl Teagan a huge basket of honeyed scones to show we are sorry! I think we ought to shape them like little mabari puppy faces - you know, for effect._**  
 **** _  
_  
  
There is more - but as she reaches the part about the scones, Leliana decides that she has seen enough. She places the yellowish, slightly crumbled piece of paper on her desk, shakes her head with a sigh of disbelief, and walks downstairs to the library. She was planning to have Ser Blackwall summoned to her at the rookery, and have a long, meaningful talk about the intention behind the numerous compliments he has been paying Josephine. Warn him that, whilst an experienced diplomat and skilled player of the Game, Josephine is an innocent in love, and it is imperative to make sure that her affections are bestowed on someone that is worthy. And mention (with her best dagger-in-the-dark look on) that she, Leliana, did not ask her best friend to join the Inquisition so she could be toyed with, and that if all those little smiles and forest flower bouquets on her table were followed by heartbreak, the Warden had better watch his back.  
  
But that can wait. This matter is even more urgent than protecting the dignity (and the sweet, pure heart) of her friend.  
  
***  
  
'Well, that certainly was something!' Dorian declares, nestling in his favourite armchair and stretching his legs.   
  
Their little party of would-be inn-builders arrived at Skyhold fairly recently, and for a certain while, he could not bring himself to do anything but stare out of the window, watching the clouds melt into curious pinkish-grey shapes and the ant-like figures of the Inquisition recruits scurry across the courtyard. Watching - but not really seeing, too preoccupied with trying to determine the exact nature of that hazy sort of... aftertaste, left after the conversation with his father.  
  
They were so alike, Halward told him before they parted. Too much pride. There was a time, once, when Dorian was still an eager little pup, ready to leap for joy when he saw his father's glowing face in the crowded stands, as he passed a public exam in magic with flying colours. And back then, he would have been overjoyed to hear that he was taking after Master Pavus Senior. Now, however, he is not so certain. He is not certain about anything... But somehow, this uncertainty still feels better than stewing in helpless anger for all this time. The little elf was right - talking did move their quarrel from that wretched standstill. Wheels have been set in motion, and as they slowly turn and grind, perhaps they will bring Dorian and his father to a day, somewhere far in the future, when he will be able to look at him the same way he did when he was a child, eager to be noticed. And if things do not work out, if Halward refuses to change, if the Pavus pride proves too much of an obstacle for them to overcome - well then, Dorian now has someone to turn back to. A friend. Friends, even. Few, but precious. The hug-loving Yavanna - and some of the others in her inner circle, too. He never thought this motley bunch of demon-fighters, from a delightfully dirty-minded street urchin to an oddly attractive Qunari soldier, would grow on him... But apparently, shielding each other from harm in battle and exchanging witty banter does wonders. And then there is... Gereon, of course. His... His first ever friend, if you think of it. Yes, the man tried to set his father on fire - but that is far easier to live with than that crushed look on his face when he dropped to his knees in front of Lavellan in Redcliffe and told her that she had won...  
  
Ah, but he is delving too deep into his (unquestionably brilliant mind). All that scrupulous self-analysis and languishing by the window (with his profile highlighted in those effective pastel strokes of evening light) is in the past now. As is that uncharacteristic sob-like sound that he made when,  after yet another round of heart-to-heart talks about his father, the overwhelmingly compassionate elf pounced towards the window and little short of stifled him in an embrace. After a tumultuous day like this one, he might as well resume his routine activities - such as charming all and sundry with lighthearted conversation. The intention to drink himself into a stupor still stands, some time later into the night.  
  
'I never thought that doing random repair work could be so gratifying!' Dorian goes on. 'Of course, a village inn is no Imperial Highway, but - '  
  
'Of course,' Alexius remarks snidely, as he looks up from the stack of papers that Fiona sent down for him to sort through.   
  
Sometimes, the former magister wonders to himself if loading him with the most tedious of errands is the Enchanter's way of getting back at him for almost indenturing her people to Tevinter. Alexius cannot blame her for it - and, of course, things could have been far worse: some of her fellow mages barely restrained the urge to spit into his face when he just started out working side by side with them. Even that irritable, loudmouthed girl (What was her name? Linnea?), the one who little short of ogled him when he first arrived at Redcliffe, never failed to greet him with a disgusted scowl. She must have been utterly revolted by the stark contrast between Alexius the magister and Alexius the Inquisition prisoner.   
  
Things have improved since then, mostly thanks to the Inquisitor - the beautiful... uh, that is, beautifully kind-hearted Yavanna - continuously vouching for him. And maybe also due to the quality of his contribution to the mages' work (not that he properly registered what he was doing most of the time, his mind too numb after the loss of his son). The younglings do not recoil at his approach any longer, and fetching whatnots and compiling tables with descriptions of magical resources is always better than rotting in a dungeon.  
  
Most notably of all, Fiona did not object to him travelling with the Inquisitor. Yavanna needn't even have hovered around the Enchanter as she did, cautious and unobtrusive as though she was tiptoeing past the coiled tail of a sleeping dragon, and punctuating her plea to give Alexius leave with countless 'Uhhs' and 'Uhhms' and 'If you don't mind's and 'I promise he will not run off's. Fiona responded to all of this tactful dancing on the spot with an absentminded 'Yes, of course', and went on about her business, leaving Yavanna to make a triumphant somersault. Of course, the Enchanter could have agreed so readily because she likes having Alexius out of sight as long as possible, but that, too, is quite understandable... And frankly, the feeling is mutual. There are only so many regrets Alexius can deal with at a time, and interacting with the Enchanter brings back... certain memories.  
  
'Of course it was gratifying for you, Dorian,' Alexius concludes the sentence, reemerging from the midst of his thoughts. 'You were mostly posing while I handled the spell-casting'.  
  
'And so you should have,' his former apprentice retorts. 'You were the one throwing fire balls around, after all'.  
  
Choosing not to counter this reminder with any further arguments, Alexius prepares to return to his paperwork - but then he catches sight of Inquisitor Lavellan, who is leaning back against the wooden railing, her face unusually pensive.  
  
'Yavanna?' he says, noting to himself that he seems to have developed an instinct of smiling while pronouncing the elf's name. 'You seem preoccupied'.  
  
Lavellan blinks. Being called by Alexius has caught her in the middle of rather troubling reminiscences.  
  
Just as the Inquisition's party was about to get ushered out of Redcliffe by a group of exceedingly cranky soldiers (sent after them by an exceedingly cranky arl), Lavellan's attention was drawn by an odd, throbbing noise, like a myriad of voices humming a muffled song. Unable to resist the lure of investigating what was evidently a magical mystery, she seized a moment when the guards got distracted by arguing with Scout Harding, and crept off, following the noise until it led her to a small wooden barn not too far from the inn. She remembered passing it by during the previous couple of visits to the village - perhaps the humming had already been there, too, but she had just been too busy handling other things, like unraveling the Venatori plot or persuading the local elven healer to help out human refugees. This time, however, she had her mind set on checking out where the noise was coming from.  
  
The door of the barn turned out to be sealed by a massive padlock. The locking mechanism itself was suspiciously too complex for a simple village storage building, but after a little bit of clicking and groping around with her picks, Lavellan managed to crack it. And then, after the door slowly creaked open, the source of the whispered song was revealed.   
  
Skulls. Stacked into neat rows of countless lipless leers: shelves upon shelves of them, each highlighted with the eerie blue glow of twisting symbols etched into the bone around the socket. The same skulls were mounted onto the bizarre standing stones that dotted the surrounding hills, showing flickering objects in the distance if you looked through their empty eyes. But Lavellan had never seen so many of them, packed into a tiny room all at once. The light emanated by the runes seemed to eat deep into the flesh of her eyeballs, leaving her gaze misty; and the never-ending him drummed heavily inside her ears till she began to feel woozy and disoriented, just like when she had just woken up after getting smashed against the trebuchet and then hurled into snowy nothingness. Panting, almost suffocating, she burst out of the barn into fresh air, and dashed off to join the others without looking back.   
  
She has not spoken a word about her little discovery to either Dorian or Alexius, trying to distract herself with chatter about appeasing Arl Teagan with honey scones. Then, she had to treat Dorian to even more healing hugs, as he confirmed Alexius' theory that his father's ritual would have likely turned him into a mindless, vegetative husk - a hollow shade of himself; a Dorian that, as he told her shakily, he 'would not like.'  
  
But now, it seems, the time has come for Lavellan to share the memory that has been haunting her throughout the entire journey back to Skyhold, and afterwards as well.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if that makes her a Mary-Sue or not, but Yavanna puts so much energy into loving and forgiving everyone that she occasionally has to 'recharge'. The process takes the form of sudden fits of sobbing, which contrast greatly with her usual chirpiness.

As both mages watch her intently, Lavellan clears her throat, and begins explaining by uttering a single word.  
'Skulls'.  
  
She then elaborates further, her voice a little hoarse.  
  
'I stumbled into a room full of skulls'.  
  
Alexius straightens up slightly.  
  
'No,' he mouths, his expression both mournful and disgusted. 'I told the fools to leave!'  
  
'Fools? What fools?' Dorian's pose grows considerably less relaxed, even as he tries to laugh the matter off. 'Do you know what Yavanna is talking about? Why? Was that your skull stash? For Venatori rituals? Don't tell me you used the things to drink the blood of the faithful or some such rot!'  
  
Alexius rubs his fingertips over his eyes.  
  
'The Oculara,' he says at length. 'You must have seen them - pillars with skulls placed onto them? The Venatori were assembling them to... study something that had been unveiled by the Breach. Magical shards - a key to a treasure coveted by the Elder One. I was given an order to scour the countryside, to find every single shard  - and passed it on to the others... I did not care much for that part of the operation - I did not care much for anything at all... outside of making sure that Felix woke up alive every morning. But eventually, we had to look into the matter more closely; to study the macabre rituals involved. And we learned... I learned that... that the Oculara were effective only when powered by a skull. A very particular type of skull. One belonging to...'  
  
He has to shake his head from side to side and take a few breaths of air before he can continue.  
  
'A Tranquil. One of those hapless wretches that ranked so many among the rebel mages. I have never been... particularly fond of them: those glassy stares, those colourless voices... But, mesmerized as I was by the Elder One's rhetoric, this mission... did not sit right with me. I felt... guilty, I suppose - looking at those helpless, clueless men and women, cut off from the Fade, unable to feel or understand emotions, unable to lie... unable to determine when they are being lied to... When they are about to be betrayed'.  
  
He shakes his head again.  
  
'And also... I felt a bit of a connection to them, in spite of how much they unnerved me. There had been days, when I woke up with Livia's side of the bed cold and empty, and with Felix groaning in delirium in the next room - there had been days...'  
  
He is interrupted by a sudden, wheezing intake of breath.  
  
'Days when I wondered to myself whether it would have been easier... if I felt no emotions at all. If all that pain just went away, leaving me an efficient, machine-like healer, ever vigilant at my son's bedside, focused on finding a cure for him, without the distraction of that crippling dread that any moment now, I might lose him...'  
  
Alexius swallows and forces a strained smile.  
  
'But I digress. I could not revoke the order to build the Oculara, not when it came from the Elder One himself - but I tried to warn the Tranquil as best I could. I treated them as disdainfully as possible; made it clear that they were not wanted in Redcliffe; nudged them to leave... But still, most of them stayed'.  
  
Lavellan sways forward slightly, her hand resting on her stomach, as though she had been wounded with a sharp blade - and then, cries out, her eyes brimming over with tears,  
  
'Your people... went around killing the Tranquil?! That is so awful, Gereon - I understand why you felt the way you did!'  
  
'You are too lenient, as always,' Alexius replies quietly. 'I went around killing the Tranquil. I was the one who imposed on the Venatori how crucial it was for our master to find those shards. It might as well have been me who severed the wretches' necks'.  
  
Dorian looks long and hard at his mentor and repeats the phrase he kept saying in the dark future, as all the known world crumbled around him and Lavellan,  
  
'This can't have been what you wanted'.  
  
'No,' Alexius whispers. 'None of that was what I wanted. But I did not try hard enough to break free of the trap I had walked into'.  
  
'You did attempt to save the Tranquil,' Lavellan says, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and letting out a small hiccup. 'In... In your own way. So no, you did not sever any necks. I refuse to listen to any of that nonsense. The Elder One was using you, and the others. It was he who needed the Tranquil dead, not you.  It is... unthinkable, what happened to them - but the Venatori would have kept making those Ocu... thingies even if you were not there. And then, the Inquisition stepped in just in time to rescue the survivors. They are all safe now... All safe... S-safe...'  
  
'Vashante kaffas, Yavanna!' Dorian exclaims. 'You are shaking all over!'  
  
'N-no I am not,' Lavellan stammers weakly. 'Well, maybe... It's just... all this talk... First about Serah Halward's ritual... And the... the other Dorian that it would have created... And then, about the Tranquil... And I keep thinking back to that room.. Did I tell you I am not too keen on tiny rooms? Kind of... like Dorian isn't too keen on sea travel... And that room was packed with skulls, too... Skulls that a-apparently belonged to Venatori vi-victims... So...'  
  
She hiccups louder this time, her breath growing uneven with stifled sobs.  
  
'So... It's a little hard... Comforting everyone... With the image of that room still inside my head...'  
  
Alexius' eyes widen in alarm - almost the same way they did when Felix pretended to be on the verge of fainting to distract him from his Venatori plotting. He leaps from his seat, sending his papers flying all across the library floor.  
  
'Don't just loiter around, Dorian!' he yells, suddenly resembling his long-forgotten old self, as he often looked while scolding lazy apprentices. 'Go find some water!'  
  
The younger mage promptly withdraws from the scene, glancing back now and again with a look that seems to be saying 'No, I am not concerned about my cheerful elven friend suddenly having some sort of tearful fit! Why should I be concerned? Impeccably perfect people like myself do not know the meaning of the word!' etc. etc.  And as he does so, Alexius, without a moment's hesitation, returns the tender embrace that Lavellan gave him after his last talk with Felix.  
  
'I suspected that shouldering the troubles of other people was bound to take its toll,' he murmurs, hovering his hand over Lavellan's head, his fingertips just barely brushing against her hair. 'You listen to so many - not just to myself and Dorian, that much is obvious... You listen, and absorb their pain and desperation, and in return, inspire hope - like a benevolent spirit would. But you are not a spirit - not like that boy who visited me in my cell below Haven. You are of flesh and blood. And we of flesh and blood need to rest, once in a while. You yourself encouraged me to do that - to rest. To set aside my grief and self-hatred. Even though you are more deserving of rest than I...'  
  
The sound of Alexius' lowered voice calms Lavellan's sobs somewhat - just enough for her to find the strength to look up at him and squeeze out a shaky apology.  
  
'I am sorry... I must look like a... a whiny child to you...'  
  
He smiles - not too mirthfully.  
  
'It is I who should be sorry: that disturbing image was planted in your mind because of the orders I gave. And remember - I was a father, once. And a teacher. I know that children - if they are raised properly - are never whiny without reason. Same applies to the adults that grow out of these children. These tears are to you what my fire spell was to me when I... argued with Halward Pavus. A way of channeling our feelings'.  
  
Lavellan sniffs; she is still hiccupping and swallowing tears, but the rhythm in which her shoulders twitch grows slower.  
  
'Are you so wonderfully gentle with everyone who cries in your presence?' she asks.  
  
'No,' Alexius replies honestly.  'Until now, I did not even assume I ever be could be this... soft again. Maybe it is that change you spoke of?'.  
  
She does not give a reply - nor does he really expect one. Like on that day when Felix died, they stand locked into each other's arms, swaying in a silent, mellow dance. Later on, Lavellan will probably argue that her little moment of weakness, brought on by caring too much for too many people all at once, cannot compare to the agony of outliving your only child. But whether or not that is true, Alexius is grateful for the opportunity to relieve her pain like she relieved his. It is puzzling, the speed at which he has come to care for what this little elf thinks and feels - but there will be more than enough time to ponder over that puzzle later.  
  
They draw away from each other only when startled by a sound of footsteps, coming somewhere from behind their backs.  
  
'Ah, Dorian,' Alexius says, stepping away from Lavellan. 'Just in time...'  
  
He never gets to finish, however: for the person that has walked up to them is not Dorian. It is Leliana; and the steely look she gives Lavellan from underneath her hood does not bode well for either the elf or the magister.  
  
'I am not as foolish as you might have thought me, Inquisitor,' she says, her tone dangerously calm. 'I knew that you had removed the magister's shackles, but I chose not to act. I reasoned that for as long ad he was contained within Skyhold, the danger that he poses could have been countered. I did not even consider the Commander's suggestion to take a sample of the magister's blood and craft a phylactery - for tracking him in case he attempted to run back to his Venatori. But then - '  
  
Her nostrils quiver - just noticeably enough to make her mask-like countenance even more intimidating.  
  
'Then, Inquisitor, you made use of my lapse in surveillance and let the man leave the boundaries of our stronghold. Scout Harding reports that you were seen in his company, near the site of a recent fire. What if you perished in that fire? What then?'  
  
She inclines her head gravely.  
  
'Allowing this slip was a tremendous mistake on my part, and I will learn from it. I can clearly see that the blame lies on me, and next time, I shall not be so absentminded. But you - how could you do this? How could you act be in such a careless, irresponsible way?'  
  
Lavellan's mouth twitches. It is clear that she has not quite recovered from her sobbing breakdown - but she is determined as always to stand by her Tevinter friend.  
  
'The fire was an accident - and I did not "perish" because Gereon saved me. And we were being very, very responsible! We came to Redcliffe to help our friend Dorian. Gereon was needed there as much as I was. Enchanter Fiona did not have any problem with that'.  
  
The casual (and double!) mention of the magister's first name does not earn Lavellan any approval from Leliana.  
  
'Fiona does not lead the Inquisition,' the Spymaster says harshly. 'And Fiona was most certainly not the one heading to a remote location in the company of the man who had already tried to assassinate her once'.  
  
'Ah, so the chosen style of this conversation is to pretend that one party is not present,' Alexius says acidly. 'Splendid'.  
  
'You can speak for yourself, Gereon,' Lavellan responds readily, daring to sneak in an affectionate brush with her fingers against his hand - right under Leliana's nose. 'Tell her that you can be trusted'.  
  
'With all due respect, Inquisitor,' the Spymaster objects, 'This man's words will hardly carry any weight. For all we know, him winning you over like he did was part of a Venatori ploy. While his comrades try to snake their way into the Orlesian Empire and murder Celene, he is preparing to...'  
  
Alexius' jaw tightens.  
  
'I will tell you what I was preparing to do, Spymaster,' he hisses. 'I was preparing to die. I had failed the Elder One, I was about to lose my child - there was nothing left for me to do except stare into nothingness and ask myself, again and again, if my master would have kept his promise. And then, someone from your Inquisition gave me the same baffling but welcome gift as to Dorian. Friendship. And this kind of gift... It is enough to rekindle one's will to carry on, even when the world seems dark and empty. I may be... what I am, but I would never repay for something like this with another betrayal'.  
  
Alexius' short speech is followed by a lengthy, heavy silence, during which Leliana's icy, greyish-blue eyes look intently into his burning brown. After the Spymaster finally breaks the gaze, she turns her attention to Lavellan, who is, once again, standing with her hand just barely touching Alexius' - and suddenly, her gaze softens, and her tone changes dramatically as well, as she says quietly,  
  
'When you asked me if I had any tales to share, Inquisitor, I told you to look here, in the library. Our supply of books is growing by the day, but there is one story that you will never read. The story only a select few people know. The story of a man whose heart was broken into so many pieces that he wanted to throw himself into battle with the mighty Grey Wardens and let death claim him, and of a woman who thwarted his attempt to kill her and, instead of finishing him off, embraced him and offered him a new purpose. I pray that, like this story, yours will end on a hopeful note. That is not a sentiment I have allowed myself in many years - but then, I have not met a person like you in many years. Not since the times of the Blight'.  
  
She pauses, with a wandering, far-off look on her face, as she remembers that day, ten years ago: the sunlit lawn, the fresh blood dripping from the green grass blades like dark red dew, the carcass of the white ox rising above the remnants of the 'carriage' of the pretend damsel in distress that lure them into a trap... And the obstinate look on her best friend's face, as she knelt next to the last remaining assassin, and refused to land the finishing blow. She was like the Inquisitor in certain ways, the sweet little Amell... Just as open-hearted and generous with second chances. Though admittedly not as keen on hugging.  
  
When Leliana speaks again, she once again embraces her role as the ruthless Spymaster - but the reminiscences of her friend still manage to leave their mark.  
  
'So, Inquisitor,' she continues to speak to Lavellan, who still stands mesmerized by the unexpected bardic intermission. 'I will let you have things your way... For now. Be as welcoming to the magister as you wish - but know that my people will be watching. One step in the wrong direction, and he will be locked in the dungeon'.  
  
Having said that, she turns on her heels and walks away, not allowing herself a second glance at the elf and the magister.  
  
Speaking of the times of the Blight - she still has Grey Wardens to intimidate.


	7. Chapter 7

Later, towards the very end of that day, Clemence the Tranquil appears suddenly in the doorway of Alexius' room, just as the latter is preparing to go to sleep, sitting on the edge of his narrow bed and thinking back to all the revelations that passed between him, Dorian, and Yavanna.  
  
The elf's capacity for luring people into heart-to-heart conversations is truly astounding; he can merely hope that his fumbling attempt at comforting her measured up. The last people to really see his soft side were Livia and Felix, and since his family happiness was taken away from him, he has been sorely out of practice in the... affection department. Not that he has felt much need for showing affection towards anyone... until now. Wait, is he thinking of Yavanna _that_ way again? Kaffas - he told himself not to!  
  
Clemence's arrival saves Alexius from being trapped in the confines of his own mind, as the bleak, almost mechanical sound of his voice alerts the magister to what is going on in the real world.  
  
'It is not polite to come in unannounced,' the Tranquil intones, making Alexius start and get hopelessly entangled in the sleeves of the robe that he has been intending to take off. 'But is is also not polite when a person fails to use the opportunity to apologize when such an opportunity presents itself'.  
  
When, after a longish while of wriggling and muttering curses in Tevene, Alexius manages to extract himself from his Inquisition-issued apparel (which he folds around his knees to conceal the fact that he has been left in nothing but his smallclothes), his expression is sincerely incredulous.  
  
'You want to apologize to me?' he asks, after a moment's hesitation (damn it, it is always so hard talking to those Tranquil). 'Whatever for?'.  
  
'I made a mistake when determining the reason behind your treatment of people like me,' Clemence explains calmly (of course, how else would he do the explaining, the blasted life-sized wind-up doll!).  
  
'I reasoned that your behaviour stemmed from your general dislike of the Tranquil. That seemed the most logical explanation. But it was not the right one. I used the data at my disposal to arrive at false conclusions. That is not acceptable. I therefore extend my apology'.  
  
Alexius frowns.  
  
Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable! The man has been stripped of all emotion - and yet he still shows human decency! Maybe there is more to the Tranquil than he gave them credit for...  Which means that his people have wronged them even more than he assumed.  
  
'Do you mean... You heard..?' he asks, straightening his hunched, bare back.  
  
'Yes,' Clemence confirms, in the same perfectly even tone. 'I happened to be going down to Serah Solas' rotunda, carrying some tomes on potion-making that he requested, in addition to a compendium of my own notes on the subject. The collective weight of the papers was quite substantial, decreasing the velocity of my movement. Consequently, I remained within earshot of your conversation with the Inquisitor for a certain time lapse. If you have a spare piece of paper, I can draw a diagram with all the calculations'.  
  
'No, no,' Alexius says hastily. 'I believe you'.  
  
Satisfied with the answer, Clemence goes on,  
  
'The period of time during which I could hear you speaking was taken up by your explanation of the desire you had to protect the Tranquil, against your superior's orders. That information proved vital for my understanding of your motivations. While insubordination towards a master as powerful as yours is not a logical course of action, the wish to keep people like me alive is very much appreciated, as it goes in line with my goal of self-preservation. My personal evaluation of you has increased greatly'.  
  
Alexius casts his eyes down and sighs.  
  
'Thank... Thank you. I wish I could have done more. Tried harder to get you moving out of Redcliffe before it was too late'.  
  
'Your wish is appreciated as well,' Clemence responds. 'Not many people still linked to the Fade show any concern regarding the fate of the Tranquil. Please understand that I cannot forgive you for what the members of the Venatori cult did to the others that were less fortunate than I. That is simply because forgiveness is no longer one of my capabilities. But I believe that you are no enemy of mine'.  
  
'That is all I can ask for,' Alexius says quietly.  
  
Clemence strains his facial muscles to make the corners of his lips move upwards.  
  
'The Inquisitor encourages everyone under her command to smile more,' he elaborates, after his sudden change in mimics makes the magister stare at him. 'She says it lifts one's mood and gives one hope. While it would not signify anything to a Tranquil, those attuned to the Fade should find a positive meaning in this type of facial expression. I am drawing this conclusion because it is safe to assume that the statements shared by the Inquisitor are true. My personal evaluation of her is very high'.  
  
Alexius returns the smile, briefly. This is so much like Yavanna: finding her way into the hearts and thoughts of the most unlikely people - and in the most unlikely ways. For whatever reason, he suddenly remembers the day when the elf dashed past him down the corridor, almost bending in two under the weight of a clattering stack of daggers. He called out after her, curious - and she looked over her shoulder and said, with a pearly grin,  
  
'I am giving a hand to Cole! He has pilfered these from our soldiers, using his excellent stealthy skills - and I am helping him stash them in a remote place... Maybe in a barrel somewhere? You see, tempers have been running rather high, what with us taking in people from all corners of Ferelden and Orlais, and from all walks of life, too! Cole thought it would be best to get rid of the daggers - to keep our men from getting into trouble. What if some of my fellow elves get touchy over what a human soldier says about them - and blood is spilled?'.  
  
After that, she danced off again, humming to herself and making carefree little leaps into the air - while miraculously managing to hold on to the daggers without scattering them. Whereas Alexius was left to ponder over the way the rays of the sun were shining through the narrow windows and reflecting off the metal clasps and adornments on the blades' sheaths, making it seem like Yavanna was cloaked in bright, pure light... A most fitting image.  
  
Clemence prepares to leave, apparently deeming the conversation to be over - but Alexius stops him before he can walk out.  
  
'Wait,' he says urgently. 'Wait - before you go... Could you do me a small favour?'  
  
While still speaking, Alexius ties the sleeves of his robe hastily around his waist, turning the garment into a makeshift apron. He is not quite certain why he bothers: the Tranquil are probably not offended by the sight of exposed flesh. Perhaps his urge to conceal himself is driven by his own mounting shame - for when he remembered how Yavanna looked that day, bathed in warm sunlight, he began to focus too much on details like her light, bouncing gait; the curve of her full lips and the dimples at the corners of her mouth; or the way the bright golden rays outlined the tips of her leaf-like, sensitive ears... And all of these images have made him experience certain... feelings that are quite inappropriate for a man of his age and in his circumstances.  
  
Having covered the lower portion of his body, Alexius gets up and reaches across the little wooden table, closing his grip around the small, round phial filled with dark liquid - which is still there, still sitting below the narrow window, still gathering dust.   
  
'Dispose of this for me,' he says, passing the phial to the Tranquil. 'I would have done it myself, but I am... somewhat emotionally attached to this vessel's contents'.  
  
Clemence takes the phial from the magister and lifts it to eye level, squinting at the liquid that slurps against its glass walls.  
  
'I am inclined to conclude that this is a poison,' he says after a while.  
  
Alexius nods, sinking back onto his bed again.  
  
'You are an alchemist, are you not? I am certain you will find a better use for this than... what I intended'.  
  
'I will pass it on to the Spymaster's agents,' Clemence announces. 'They are always in need of toxins and other similar substances'.  
  
'Good,' Alexius says. 'I am certain Lady Leliana will appreciate the gesture. That... That was sarcasm,' he hurries to add, 'She does not need to know this came from me. If you mention my name, she might think I was intending to use it on the Inquisitor'.  
  
'But you were not?' Clemence inquires (a most logical way to respond, for certain).  
  
'No,' Alexius looks down at his hands, remembering that soothing coolness of the glass against his skin. 'I was going to use it on someone who thought that it would be a... kindness. But now he is no longer certain that ending his life is what he really wants... so there is no need for me to keep this'.  
  
'Quite understandable'.  
  
The Tranquil packs the phial carefully into the little pouch at his belt and turns towards the door again. But before he walks off with his deadly burden, he makes one last remark, which will give Alexius much food for thought for hours to come,  
  
'I have noticed that you began to shave off all your facial hair after you entered into the Inquisition's service. It is my opinion that you should cease doing so. I was once discussing potion improvements with the Inquisitor, and as she was taking notes of the ingredients she had to find, I saw that all the sketches of your profile she has made on the margins of her journal are complemented with the patch of hair that you used to have below your mouth. It must be of some significance to the Inquisitor - and therefore, you should see to its return'.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Sanguis malus - quid fuit?' means 'Bad blood - what was that?'.


End file.
